


The Summer That is Fleeting

by insearchof



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insearchof/pseuds/insearchof
Summary: Hríd has spent most of his life as a prisoner of Múspell. Over the years, he has befriended the kingdom's eldest princess, Laegjarn, who promises to someday set him free. A certain turn of events, however, lead them to run away together instead.





	The Summer That is Fleeting

It’s a lonely existence, spending one’s days in a dungeon cell. Sometimes, Hríd wonders if what he experiences can even be called ‘existing’: he is a political prisoner, sent as tribute to Múspell at a young age, and he expects to be here in this forsaken kingdom until his dying day.

Time, in his little world, is measured solely by visits.

Every day, he is brought two meals, which he eats in order to stay alive. Every three days, he is allowed a shower, because he is still royalty, and because Surtr has to keep up his appearance for when he parades Hríd through the capital like some show animal. Every seven days, the princess sneaks down to speak with him.

Every seven days, Hríd feels as if he gets a taste of what it’s like to exist again.

The princess, Laegjarn, is his only companion in this purgatorial hell. They first met when they were children, when Laegjarn and her sister Laevatein snuck into the dungeon during one of their many explorations of the castle grounds.

Hríd had no idea who they were at the time. He was no older than twelve then, and being so young, he was excited to see two new faces break the monotony of his life as a prisoner.

Laevatein, being the youngest of them, had walked up to the bars and asked, “Who are you?”

Before he could respond, Laegjarn had replied, “He’s bad, of course. Father said that only bad people are put down here.”

To this day, Hríd doesn’t know what happened in that moment -- but all of a sudden, he found himself protesting indignantly that he wasn’t ‘bad’, that he was only here until his mother would come to take him back, and that _they_ were the bad ones. Perhaps he had become sick and tired of being treated like a toy, or perhaps it was just his youthish impulses kicking in.

Either way, his angry words sent the sisters running. But later that night, Laegjarn would sneak back down, her curiosity getting the better of her. Her first words to him, upon waking him up, were, “Why are _we_ the bad ones?”

The memory of Laegjarn’s inquisitive demeanour, her desire to know the answer to every question life has to offer, still makes Hríd smile, ten years later.

Thus began their conversations. Laegjarn’s visits always mean gifts, in the form of physical objects, or in the form of news pertaining to the outside world. Sometimes she brings food and books, and other times, she brings information of Nifl’s rebellion against Múspell as well as stories of her everyday life.

Through these conversations, Hríd learns that she is the eldest princess of Múspell, a position that means absolutely nothing in her kingdom. Her father, Laegjarn explained to Hríd, is immune to death from natural causes, having been bestowed the blessing of the Fire Dragon, Múspell. For years, there have been people trying to overthrow Surtr. But none have been able to destroy him in combat, and as a result, he remains effectively immortal, with no need of a successor.

“My father may never meet his end,” Laegjarn said that day, determination glowing in her red eyes. “But I _will_ find a way to free you. Someday, we’ll speak on the outside. I swear it.”

Hríd appreciates her words immensely, as they are his sole glimmer of hope in his abysmal situation, because when he thinks about it, what else does he have to live for?

His kingdom? He knows little of it besides what Laegjarn has told him.

His family? His mother died during his imprisonment, his father was dead long before, and his siblings, whose existence he learned of only years ago due to them growing up in different areas of the kingdom, he has no attachment to.

Hríd swears that, if it isn’t for Laegjarn, he may have stopped eating -- or done something far, far worse -- and ended up truly rotting away in this hellhole.

It’s her and the little comforts she provides, that keep him going.

* * *

He is drawing in the journal that Laegjarn brought him. The pencil he uses is knobby, thick, and the lines he makes with it makes are barely legible in the light of the fiery torches that line the wall outside the cell. But he draws nevertheless, determined to maintain his own humanity, as well as a record of his existence here.

The pages are filled with various things, from stories spun out of boredom to entries about his interactions with Laegjarn. What Hríd is most proud of, though, are the crude and childish drawings.

By no means is he an artist; to call himself that would be sacrilege, he thinks as he thumbs through the pages of black and white sketches he has drawn. He’s drawn Laegjarn, he’s drawn himself (after Laegjarn brought down a mirror from her quarters and showed him what he looks like nowadays), but what he’s drawn the most is the outside.

What lies beyond the castle fascinates him to no end. He only possesses recollections of what the outside is like before he was imprisoned, yet that doesn’t stop him from trying to depict its grandeur when he’s restless and wondering.

He’s in the middle of sketching a sky full of stars, half from memory and half from imagination, when he hears someone approach his cell. Quickly, he pushes the journal underneath the thin blanket he has been provided, and starts staring at the flickering torches on the walls, pretending to be deep in thought.

“Are you awake?” Hríd recognises that it’s Laegjarn’s voice. She emerges into his line of sight, snapping his concentration in half, and he notices that water is dripping from the ends of her green hair.

“What are you doing here?” Hríd’s tone is low, even though he knows Laegjarn usually bribes the guards to let her in. But it’s only been three days since their last visit. His intuition comes in; something must be wrong.

Laegjarn hesitates, uncharacteristic of herself, before answering. “I killed a...person.”

“You _what?_ ”

“I killed someone,” Laegjarn says a second time, before reverting back to her usual calm self. “And I need to leave because of it, so I’m here to say goodbye.”

“Where are you going?” Hríd crawls over to the bars of his cell so he can get a clearer view of his friend. She’s not in her usual armor, but rather, in a plain black cloak and a pair of leather boots. A large bag is slung over her shoulder. “You’re not coming back, are you?” he observes.

“Correct,” Laegjarn replies. Her expression resembles one of sadness as she speaks. “I’m planning to spend the rest of my life somewhere far from here, somewhere where they’ll never find me. I’m sorry I have to do this to you, but-”

“Wait,” Hríd interrupts, grabbing at the bars and pulling his face up against them. “Take me with you.”

His words seem to surprise Laegjarn.

“I...I can’t,” she murmurs. “It would be wrong of me to let you get caught up in this.”

“But you promised that we’d get to the outside someday, together,” Hríd says, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. He locks eyes with Laegjarn, pleading with his gaze. “Please. Let me come.”

She stares back unflinchingly. “The journey I’m about to embark on is going to be dangerous. I can’t protect the two of us.”

“I’d rather die outside than die in this cell, all alone,” Hríd desperately argues. Laegjarn doesn’t know how to respond to his statement. He gets up and presses himself against the bars so that he’s at Laegjarn’s height. “You wouldn’t have me stay here for the rest of my life, would you?”

She remains silent. The only sound in the corridor of cells is the crackling of the torches’ flames, which make shadows dance across Laegjarn’s face, darkening her expression. Undaunted, Hríd looks straight into her crimson irises, trying to figure out if his words had any effect. But her eyes reveal little, besides...was that _pain?_

They stand in silence for who knows how long, and then all of a sudden, as if she has had a revelation, Laegjarn mutters a hasty, “Wait here,” before turning heel and walking back down the hall.

Hríd strains his ears to listen to the sound of her footsteps until they fade away, and when he can no longer hear them, he starts counting the seconds that go by until he hears them again. He counts to a minute, but she does not return. Disappointed, but patient, he releases his hold on the bars and sits back down, trying to come up with a reason as to why Laegjarn hasn’t come back yet. Perhaps she needed some time alone to consider her choices, or had heard someone coming and is currently in hiding. Something. Anything.

She would never leave him here to fend for himself, after all. He has faith in her.

And he’s right -- eventually, after a couple more minutes pass by, her familiar footsteps begin to sound again, and she walks back into his field of vision with a ring of keys in her hands.

Without a word, she sticks the key in the lock and turns it, and the cell door creaks open. Hríd hastily gets to his feet and exits the cell, unrestrained, for the first time in his life. Despite himself, he looks back behind him and sees the rumpled sheets on the ground of his cell that are covering his journal, and he feels a pit of apprehension form inside his stomach.

He’s finally leaving the place he has spent most of his life cooped up in.

When he looks back beside him, he realises Laegjarn is already halfway down the hall, and as quietly as he can, he runs after her.

“Where are the guards?” Hríd whispers once he catches up to her.

“I subdued the two stationed outside here,” she replies in equally hushed tones. “Locked them away in another wing. Nobody should find them for a while.”

“What about the others in the castle?”

“We sneak past them. We only have to make it to the kitchen since there’s a hidden passageway there that leads to an outside cellar,” Laegjarn explains.

As they walk up the flight of stairs leading to the next floor, Hríd realises that he can’t remember the last time he’s been out of the dungeon. He wraps one of his hands around his wrist while they ascend, touching at the spot the chains should be, and a giddy feeling rises in his chest. This taste of freedom is unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

Like Laegjarn said, there aren’t any guards in sight near the exit. She opens the door slowly, as to not make any noise, and reveals the castle’s halls. Red carpet lines the ground, accentuated by the bright glow of torches, and golden tapestries depicting Múspell’s many conquests are draped on the wall. Hríd stiffens as they walk past the tapestry depicting the flames of Múspell devouring an ice castle that he believes to be Nifl. Even though he bears no real links to Nifl besides being of royal blood, the thought of the countless injustices Múspell has wrought upon the people there stir anger within him.

But can he really do anything about it? He considers the question as Laegjarn leads him through the long halls, trusting in her ability to make sure that they avoid any guards.

He’s always thought that if he ever goes back to Nifl, he will get the chance to retrieve his own life the life of a privileged prince. That’s the kind of fantasy he always daydreams about when he’s bored anyways.

Someone has to free Nifl from Múspell’s clutches one day. But he’s never thought about that person being him. The responsibility is too much to bear, and he doesn’t have the skills necessary to win battles or rally the people. They make a turn and Hríd frowns as he realises that he’s effectively useless, never having experienced anything in the world other than his cell.

A part of him even begins to doubt his usefulness towards Laegjarn in this escape. He simply follows, unable to lead, and he can’t protect himself, much less her. In the end, though, he reasons that he can do his best to not be a hindrance, and he accepts that as his goal for the duration of time he is with Laegjarn. Hríd even finds himself lifting his chin slightly with this newfound determination.

Soon enough, they make it into the kitchens, which Hríd recognises by the large pot suspended over a doused fire pit, the first of many. Laegjarn picks up an oil lamp from one of the counters and takes him to a door on the side, ushering him in before shutting it, which plunges them into utter darkness.

“We’re going to have to go down a ladder now, so be careful,” she instructs as she lights the oil lamp. It flares to life, revealing her face once more in its orange glow. Hríd can’t help but notice how regal she still looks, even in such poor lighting and commoner’s clothes.

She doesn’t look like a killer at all -- which reminds him...

“So, who did you kill that’s so important?” Hríd asks as she lifts up the hatch covering the hole that leads underground.

“My father,” Laegjarn says matter of factly, gesturing at a now shocked Hríd to enter. “You first. I need to close it after us.”

He has a million questions now. But Hríd swallows them all and starts making his way down the hatch, his hands feeling numb and sweaty as they grab onto the ladder’s rungs. If he slips, --he reminds himself in an attempt to think of something else besides _how_ Surtr could’ve died-- he’ll fall down to the bottom of this who-knows-how-deep hole and probably break a few bones. Taking a deep breath, he adjusts his pace for the sake of being careful.

After what seems like an eternity, he reaches the bottom of the hole. He walks forward, hands out in front of him so that he doesn’t walk into the wall, and makes room for Laegjarn, who’s nearing the bottom as well. As soon as she reaches the ground, she grabs his hand and, holding the oil lamp out in front of them to light the way, begins to drag him down the tunnel at a brisk pace.

“How long is this tunnel?” he asks, wincing as his bare foot steps on a rock. “What’s the situation, anyways? Is Surtr really dead?”

“It’s a few miles long,” she replies. “And yes, he’s dead. It’s complicated.”

Hríd blinks. “I thought he was unfalliable, unless defeated in battle, or... _gods_ , did you…?”

“I did.”

“But how?” Hríd asks, disbelief filling his voice.

There’s a hitch in Laegjarn’s stride. “I am...not sure if I am entirely honest,” she admits. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I...lost control of my feelings when he told me I had to kill Laevatein when she returns, because of her failure to prevent the Askrans from regaining independence, and I just..." She took a brief pause, “He turned to get something from his desk, and I couldn’t stop myself.”

Hríd squeezes her hand in an attempt to give her comfort. “You did the right thing,” he assures her. “No more people will die by Surtr’s hands now. If anything, you’re a hero.”

“No.” She starts walking faster. “Now that he’s gone, his corrupt council is in power. There’s a vicious woman called Loki at the head of it all, and she will be just as merciless as he was, if not more.”

“Then what do we do now?” Hríd asks, feeling uncertainty grow in the back of his mind.

“We run,” Laegjarn replies simply.

“But where?”

“To lands beyond Múspell.”

“Like Nifl or Askr?” Hríd suggests hopefully.

“Preferably somewhere without inhabitants. I have a wild territory to the south marked on my map,” Laegjarn says. The light of the oil lamp flickers as she speaks. “If we go somewhere that Múspell can go, destruction will follow.”

“I see.”

He now remembers his previous escape attempts, two of them to date, and how he hadn’t even made it out of the dungeon both times. But even if he had succeeded, he realises, he had never considered the thought that there would be a continent-wide manhunt for him. He thought that the guards would chase him up to Múspell’s borders, but he never imagined that they would torch a kingdom to the ground to hunt him down.

The severity of the situation begins to sink in on Hríd as he realises that they indeed are now wanted fugitives of the highest degree. A king killer and a useless person, he thinks in grim amusement. What a sight the two of them must make.

Eventually, Laegjarn stops in her tracks, her oil lamp revealing an old looking wooden door. She opens it with a twist of its knob, bringing them into the cellar that she had described earlier. They walk across it to a flight of stairs and go up until they reach another door.

This time, when the door is opened, Hríd’s breath catches in his throat.

What greets him is a field, barren save for the occasional tree and a patch of grass. It’s the widest expanse of open area he has ever laid eyes on, and the sense of freedom that comes with it is almost overwhelming. Cool rain is drizzling from the night sky above and like a child that has experienced rain for the first time, Hríd reaches his hand out just to feel the water hit his palm. A slight smile creeps onto his face. He steps outside, ignoring the fact that the thin shift he’s wearing will get soaked, and basks in the feeling of wonder that is pulsating throughout his body.

It’s then that he notices Laegjarn is watching him with a curious expression.

“When’s the last time you’ve seen rain?” she asks, stepping outside with him.

“I don’t remember.”

Laegjarn watches him for a few more seconds before speaking again. “Well, it’s the middle of summer, which means rainy season. Not optimal for travel. Especially,” she gestures at his bare, now muddy, feet, “without boots. We’ll need to get you a pair soon; and some actual clothes. But you’ll have to buy or steal it yourself. I can’t risk being seen in a town.”

“I see,” Hríd replies. He curls his toes and feels the mud gather in between them. It’s soft and squishy and it reminds him of the texture of porridge. Water is starting to accumulate in his held-out palms.

“This is so amazing,” he says, his smile becoming a full-on grin. He turns to look at Laegjarn. “Thank you for letting me come with you.”

She nods, but Hríd notices that her face is darkened by an emotion he cannot identify. Before he can bring it up though, she says, “Let’s get going,” and turns to leave.

The two travel through the entire night in darkness, Laegjarn having extinguished the oil lamp. It’s silent, except for the soothing sound of rain and the occasional wild animal calling out. By the time the rain finally stops and the moon comes out, Hríd is soaking wet and his garments and hair are feeling heavy with water. They continue on without breaks, trudging through the empty terrain. Hours go by, and they pass a town or two, walking around their perimetres to avoid detection, and soon enough, the sun rises.

Hríd’s feet are blistering from walking so much and his legs feel like they are filled with heavy rocks, but he bites back his complaints, remembering his goal to not hinder Laegjarn, who seems to never tire. She maintains the same quick, fast-walking pace throughout the long hours, head held high like the princess she is, and Hríd cannot help but feel admiration for her.

No doubt, she has the stamina to outlast even the hardiest of soldiers.

Once the sun is high in the sky, they stop near a natural formation of boulders to rest -- at least, Hríd rests, while Laegjarn stays up to keep watch. Once Hríd wakes, he takes on her role and insists she catch a few hours of sleep. After some back and forth arguing, she reluctantly agrees. But even in sleep, Laegjarn is on guard. She sleeps leaning against the rock, upright, with one hand resting on the handle of her blade, Níu, which had been concealed so well underneath her cloak that even Hríd had no idea she had brought it along beforehand.

When she ends up waking (after what looked like a mere nap), they continue on for another half of a day until they reach a small, quiet village. Here, Laegjarn permits him to rest once more, and gives Hríd money to buy them food and supplies. The job secretly stirs excitement up within Hríd.

A village means people, and seeing people means new experiences; which, in turn, means new knowledge.

Borrowing Laegjarn’s black cloak to better hide his identity, he enters the village after being instructed by her on how to act, and does as he is told. It isn’t hard either, as he’s disappointed by how distant and unfriendly people in the village act towards him. He expected a lively, bustling scene. Instead, all he sees are dismal alleyways and people who are _afraid_ of him: they give him strange looks, avoid walking near him, and don’t ask any questions when he buys from them. It’s a strange experience, Hríd thinks to himself. It doesn’t seem like the right way to live, spending your whole life in fear of others. But he supposes that Surtr’s reign gave these people plenty of reason to become the way they are now.

The saddening fact that their lives most likely won’t be improved under Loki’s rule tugs at Hríd’s heartstrings. He sighs to himself and is about to leave the marketplace when something catches his eye.

A peddler is selling flowers, and Hríd recognises them from a book Laegjarn had given him to read. They are Múspell Fireposies, and if he remembers correctly, they only grow in the western region of Múspell, far from the capital. They also happen to be Laegjarn’s favourite flower. He looks at the cluster of vibrant red flowers, admiring how they become tinted with gold near their centres.

It’s an easy enough decision to make.

He purchases a single flower before leaving the village, heading south, in the direction Laegjarn said they’d be meeting up. It’s a short, pleasant walk, and he soon finds himself at the entrance to the forest Laegjarn described. It takes a bit of searching and calling, but he eventually finds Laegjarn sitting behind a cluster of trees, studying her map.

“Did you buy everything?” she asks, not looking up at Hríd when he approaches.

“Yeah. I got the canteens, the knife, the rations, and my clothes,” he confirms as he sifts through the bag of his purchases. “Oh, and I got something for you too. It wasn't expensive, so don’t worry.”

Laegjarn raises her head, a wary look on her face. “Something for me?”

“Yeah.” Hríd grins, pulling out the Fireposy, which had been sitting at the top of the pile of items in the bag. “Remember that time you were talking about wanting a garden?”

“Oh,” Laegjarn breathes. She gets up and slowly walks over to him, her eyes fixated on the flower. “Strange, that you would remember that conversation. But thank you,” she murmurs, accepting the gift. Hríd watches as she tucks the plant’s stalk behind her ear, so that the flower is sticking out of her hair.

“You know, I haven’t…” Laegjarn starts, then blinking a few times in rapid succession. “Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?” Hríd asks curiously, watching her return to her map, which she begins to roll up and pack away.

“It isn’t important.” She carefully places the map into her knapsack. “Put on your new clothes, we’ll be leaving soon.”

Hríd obeys, turning around and shrugging off the shift he’s wearing, as well as Laegjarn’s cloak, in favour of a blue short-sleeved tunic, a pair of baggy pants and boots. As he’s doing so, he continues speaking. “You said that it’s not important, but I’d like to hear your thoughts anyways. They’re always interesting.”

At first, Laegjarn doesn’t respond. She just walks over to the bag of supplies Hríd bought in town and pulls out the dried meat and hardtack.

It’s only after examining the food that she abruptly says, “Do you really want to know? They’re very silly thoughts.”

“Of course.”

“Well, I haven’t put flowers in my hair for years,” Laegjarn admits after another short silence, in which she passes some of the rations to Hríd. “I used to, when I was a little girl. I would weave flower crowns or braid flowers into Laevatein’s hair all the time.”

Hríd takes a bite of the hardtack. “What made you stop?”

“My mother’s passing. After her death, Father changed completely,” Laegjarn says before beginning to eat as well. She chews on the dried meat, looking as if she’s deep in thought. “When I was a child, he had always seemed harsh, but never cruel. But the more time that passed, the more I realised that I was wrong. He always had that cruelty inside him, Mother just protected us from it when she was alive.”

“She was a powerful woman, the only one able to meet Surtr head to head in battle. He not only admired her, he feared her as well: I believe that’s why they got married in the end,” Laegjarn says, her gaze travelling to the ground. “Sometimes, I think he killed her. I never saw Father much, but I noticed the scar on his eye after she died. I want to believe she put up a fight, and that she only lost because she had too big of a heart; that she couldn’t bear to kill him herself.”

“You seem just like her,” Hríd notes. Upon seeing Laegjarn tilt her head in confusion, he elaborates, “You seem just like your mother. You’re powerful, protecting, yet still caring and kind. I’m sure you would’ve made her very proud.”

“Thank you,” Laegjarn says softly. She doesn’t meet his eyes.

They spend the rest of their meal listening to the sound of the other’s crunching and chewing, and once they finish, they pack up and return to the trail.

As they walk through the forest and navigate their way through the maze of coniferous trees, Hríd finds himself thinking about his own mother. She had loved him dearly, and he remembers laying in her lap and falling asleep to the soft croons of a Niflese lullaby. It’s one of the few memories he has of her.

Ever since he was stuck in his cell as a child, Hríd had always hoped that his mother would come save him. He always had vivid daydreams of waking up to her gentle face and running into her arms so he could feel her soft, loving caresses.

It was a puerile fantasy that he held onto until the day Laegjarn told him she died.

Laegjarn said that some people thought the cinders that fell over Nifl from to Múspell’s conquest had weakened the powers of the Frost Dragon, and that Nifl’s queen had contracted a fatal illness. Others thought that Surtr had sent killers to dispose of her in the middle of the night with cloaks and daggers. No matter the cause of her death though, Hríd misses her immensely.

Sneaking a glance over at Laegjarn, who has reverted back to her confident stride, Hríd realises that she must’ve lost her mother at a very young age. He was a teenager when his mother died -- Laegjarn may have been no more than six years old at the time of her mother’s passing.

He wants to comfort her, he thinks as they walk, occasionally looking at Laegjarn and spotting the melancholy in her eyes. He wants to tell her that she isn’t alone, not even out here; he wants to tell her that there’s hope ahead of them, even if that’s just an empty statement the heroes of fairytales use to inspire their friends. But he doesn’t know what to say and he’s afraid that if he tries, he’ll fail, or worse, insult her strength. So he keeps quiet and simply hopes his company alone will express the words he wants to, but cannot possibly say.

* * *

Life has taken an odd turn, yet Hríd cannot get enough of how grand life feels outside the confines of his cage. Though it’s a matter of life or death, the whole situation feels surreal to him, as if he’s in a dream he cannot wake up from.

For the next week, they travel through empty stretches of land without bumping into any people, only stopping near streams or towns when they need to refill their supplies. Laegjarn becomes more talkative as the journey progresses, and they gradually start to have more conversations about important things. Through these talks, Hríd learns of things she had been unable to talk to him about before, for fear of others eavesdropping: he learns of the time she spent serving under Loki’s command in Surtr’s army, he learns of the horrors of war, and the struggle for survival Laegjarn and Laevatein had faced every day.

“There used to be a general named Helbindi in our army,” Laegjarn said on one occasion. “He was a close friend of my sister and I. He was too kind for his own good, though, and his emotions got the best of him. He tried to spare the life of the Emblian princess and help her run away to Askr, but my father found out about his treachery and had him fed alive to the wyverns.”

Her voice cracked then, “All of the generals of the army had to watch, including Laevatein and myself, to make sure that he would be made an example of. Gods, I can still see his face, and how he tried not to scream; how he tried to be brave until the very end…”

Throughout these storytelling sessions, Hríd listens solemnly and does his best to offer his sympathy. No amount of kind words or comforting, though, can erase the hurt and guilt from Laegjarn’s voice. The only thing that seems to take the edge off of her pain are her own words, as she retells the events of her life and vows to grow stronger as a result.

Laegjarn also teaches him of the real world. From her lessons, he learns how to tell what direction you’re travelling in with just the stars and read a map, as well as the basic techniques on how to defend himself. His favourite lessons from her is self-defense.

“If someone ever walks up to you and tries to choke you, here’s what you need to do,” she instructed: “Try to remain upright, grab their wrists, and knee them, aiming for the stomach or groin.” She then proceeded to demonstrate, placing her hands around his neck and letting him fight back.

In a real fight, Hríd would’ve been dead before he could gather his thoughts, but wrestling with Laegjarn is an experience he appreciates, as he has never been in even the semblance of a fight before. Throughout their practice sessions, he observes the way Laegjarn fights: Her raw strength is enough to overpower him most of the times, and on the off chance that strength somehow isn’t enough, she is an opportunist that uses every opening she can see. Her immense knowledge of both fighting and tactics together makes her impossible for Hríd to beat. Not that he minds the challenge. If getting beaten black and blue is the only way he’ll learn, then he’ll gladly accept such a fate.

Their happy times, however, soon come to an end as the rest of the world starts to inevitably catch up to them.

During a night in the start of the next week, as they are trekking through a stretch of plains, Laegjarn suddenly stops in her tracks and holds Hríd back from advancing further, much to his confusion.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“There’s someone coming. I’ll do the talking. If anything happens, stay back,” she instructs, and Hríd watches as she shifts her cloak so that it conceals Níu’s presence.

It’s then that he notices that, in the distance, there is a group of men on horseback approaching them rapidly under the pale moonlight.

They stand there for a minute, waiting for the men to get closer. It’s an eerie calm before the storm, and once they’re a hundred metres away or so, Hríd’s hair stands up on end as he notices the golden crest of Múspell glimmering on their banners.

“Who goes there? State your name and purpose,” a man calls out as his horse comes to a stop no more than a few metres from them. He is armed with a spear, Hríd observes, and the rest of his entourage, four other men, carry their own weapons as well.

“I am Frida, and this is my husband, Gorm,” Laegjarn says in a soft, lilting accent, walking closer to the stranger. “We are on our way home from a pilgrimage to the capital’s temples. Since you came from the direction we are going, would you happen to know if the next town is far from here?”

“It’s not too far, it’s-” is all the soldier manages to get out before Laegjarn strikes. She whips Níu from out under her cloak and with a single thrust, shoves the magical blade’s searing tip into the man’s chest.

She removes Níu from the man’s twitching body, sheathing it and pulling the spear out of the corpse’s hands. By then, the other soldiers start to react to the killing of their leader, and begin shouting and charging at Laegjarn.

Hríd watches in fascination as Laegjarn expertly plunges her new weapon into the first approaching rider’s horse. The animal panics, and the rider struggles to not fall off after Laegjarn wrenches the spear from his dying mount, so much so that he drops his sword in the process. Now, another rider is coming towards Laegjarn, and she turns her attention towards him. Aiming her spear at an angle, she utilises its reach to impale the man before his sword can touch her, and he falls off his mount, clutching at his wound.

The two remaining riders wielding axes are now circling Laegjarn, their weapons raised defensively, as if they are afraid to attack. Then, one of them notices Hríd’s presence, and in the blink of an eye, starts charging him with his weapon raised. Hríd feels time slow down as his heart’s pulse goes into overdrive at the realisation that, if the axe makes contact with him, he might die. He is initially frozen with fear, his feet refusing to react to his commands. But at the last moment, he forces himself to jump to the side and roll out of harm’s way.

He lands ungracefully against the ground with a grunt and scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can. When he turns around, he sees Laegjarn in the process of dispatching his attacker. She is a blur as she swings Níu, cutting the enemy from shoulder to hip in one swift blow. The last rider, upon seeing his comrades fallen, attempts to turn around mid-charge and run in the opposite direction.

The time it takes to stop his horse and turn it around, though, gives Laegjarn the opening to leap at the soldier. She looks like a wild animal, shouting a fearsome cry as she jumps. With a powerful swing, she cuts into the rider’s mount. Níu’s magical blade sets the horse on fire where it is cut, and it throws the rider off before running away, making it only a few dozen metres before collapsing.

“Please, show mercy!” the last rider gasps, struggling to get up. He throws down his axe and gets onto his knees, begging for his life. “I-I have a family, I have a son and daughter and wife who need me. Please, don’t kill me…”

“Who sent you?” Laegjarn asks, slowly walking over to the man with Níu still drawn.

“Nobody, we were just patrolling. We’re from the nearby town,” he stammers, eyes widening as she draws closer. “Wait, is that you? Princess Laegjarn?

“Has the council said anything of my disappearance?” She lifts her blade so that the moonlight reflects off of it, showing off Níu’s deadly edge.

The man gulps. “I don’t know much. But Lady Loki does have a warrant out for your capture.”

“And what of my sister? How is she?”

“Princess Laevatein is awaiting trial for conspiring to kill the king. But did you two really kill His Majesty? Did you- Wait, what are you-”

Laegjarn takes one step closer before swinging her blade and effortlessly decapitating the man. Still shaky on his feet, Hríd watches in fear as the man’s head rolls across the dirt, blood leaking everywhere. Laegjarn stands over his slumped body in silence, her face betraying no emotion.

Then, she turns to face Hríd.

“Are you frightened?” she asks quietly. She shakes Níu a few times to remove some of the blood as she waits for his answer.

“A little,” Hríd admits. He makes a fist and squeezes tightly in an attempt to get rid of pent up tension in his body. “Why did you kill them all?”

“Their leader was starting to recognise who I was. I could see it in the way he looked at me,” Laegjarn replies, sheathing Níu once more. “Did you not want me to kill them?”

“Maybe not the last one. He surrendered, and he was completely helpless. And he was willing to cooperate,” says Hríd.

“But if he lived and returned to his town, he would’ve been a danger to us both,” Laegjarn points out.

“That’s true.”

“Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made for the greater good,” Laegjarn says softly. “Do you understand?”

“I...do,” Hríd answers. He avoids looking at the corpses scattered around them at first, as their pallid, contorted faces disturb him. Life seems so fragile, he thinks, that it can be taken away with the simple swing of a sword. He hasn’t seen people die before, and though he knows his own survival depends on the failures of his enemies, it still makes his soul ache to think that his life is somehow worth more than the lives of strangers.

In the end, though, he helps Laegjarn sort things out. They put the remaining horses down so they will not attract any attention, douse the flames Níu created, and take what they can from the men, mostly medical supplies. He cannot stay angry at her, Hríd realises, because there was only one other outcome for the situation that occurred tonight. Although neither outcome makes him happy, this one is the better of the two: someone needed to die, and Laegjarn simply ensured it wasn’t them.

He cannot stay angry, but he does stay bothered by it all.

Later that night, as they continue trudging through Múspell’s desolate countryside, Hríd finds himself thinking back on the whole experience again. It’s stuck in his head, how close to death he had been tonight, and as a result, he feels very small in the scope of the entire world.

“Do you ever wish you could be a hero?” he asks Laegjarn at one point in the night, while they are refilling their canteens and breaking at a stream.

“A hero?”

“Yeah. Like the kind you read about in stories.”

“Well, I don’t think heroes exist in real life.” Laegjarn takes a drink from her canteen. “Stories are one-dimensional, with an obvious good ‘hero’ and evil ‘villain’. Reality and real people are much more gray.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it this way. If you were a hero, who would you choose to save?”

“The people,” Hríd replies with the obvious answer.“If I was a hero, I’d try my best to help the common folk who can’t defend themselves.”

“But what about people like us?” Laegjarn asks, taking another drink. “We aren’t common folk. We both have some form of blood on our hands. People have died because of our existence. Yet, have we done anything wrong? Do we deserve to be saved?”

Hríd contemplates the question at first. But to his frustration, he cannot find an answer, so he remains silent, thinking over Laegjarn’s words in his head.

“I used to want to be a hero, when I was young,” she continues, a hint of sentiment colouring her voice. “But then I took a look at reality, and saw that such things could not be. Nobody thinks they’ve done anything wrong, and everyone thinks they deserve to be saved, one way or another. There cannot be a hero for each and every one of us.”

“Don’t you have any hope for someone like that to exist, though?” Hríd asks.

“Hope is a wonderful thing to have,” Laegjarn says, smiling sadly. Her hand brushes against Hríd’s arm, as if she’s trying to comfort her, before she stands up. “I think I’ve lost all of mine. But the hope that you possess is more than enough to be shared with someone like me. Now, shall we go?”

“Let’s go,” Hríd agrees and gets to his feet, pushing his questions aside.

There’s a time and place for every question, and he figures that, for the time being, Laegjarn isn’t going to answer any more.

And so, they continue on their routine, as if nothing has happened -- as if no men have died, as if no questions have been asked. By the end of the second week, according to Laegjarn’s map, they have traversed half the kingdom. Hríd’s feet are full of blisters and sores that are starting to harden and toughen, his legs are becoming toned, and overall, he feels like a different person than he was mere weeks before. He almost feels _good_.

Almost, but not quite.

He finds himself constantly thinking about Laegjarn’s character, as well as his own. He wants to believe he is a good person, he wants to believe his friend is a good person, but at this rate, his wants don’t seem to matter when the facts simply prove him wrong: she is a murderer, and he is someone who enables a murderer, which makes him just as guilty.

Would Laegjarn kill him if it meant her own survival? Would he let her die if it meant that he would continue to be free? She had said that sometimes, things have to be sacrificed for the greater good, yet Hríd isn’t sure what ‘good’ is anymore.

He can’t allow such thoughts to stop him from accompanying her, though. They’ve come too far for that.

As they continue southbound, they encounter some days where travel is difficult, if not impossible. Due to it being rainy season, there are torrential downpours from time to time. Usually, they just trudge on until they’re both soaking wet along with their supplies, whereupon they’ll need to find a town to replenish their stores within the next few days.

On a particular day during the third week, though, they get lucky. As the tell-tale lightning strikes begin streaking through the sky and raindrops start to fall from the skies, they find a cave in the forest they are travelling through.

Laegjarn agrees to let them take shelter within it, and Hríd is grateful for the reprise.

The cave is small, dark, full of moss, and the soil they sit on is uncomfortably moist, but it’s better than being out in the rain, Hríd thinks as he draws in the dirt with a stick he found. It’s hard to make detailed images in the dirt due to how saturated it is, so he resorts to practising his letters.

He learned to write when he was still in Nifl, and though he had always preferred watching the soldiers train over sitting next to his tutor for boring lessons, the gift of language has become precious to him since his arrival in Múspell. Though he can speak the language of Múspell, he cannot write it, and only retains information on how to write letters in his native tongue.

“Try this on the wall, it’s more permanent,” Laegjarn suddenly says as he’s focusing on writing out the days of the week.

Hríd looks up to see her offering him a piece of rock. It’s small enough to be held, but big enough that he cannot wrap his hand around the whole thing.

“How does it work?” Hríd asks, accepting the stone. It’s only after the words leave his mouth that he realises what a stupid question that is.

However, he does make Laegjarn laugh, a sound he hasn’t heard in a long time. It’s a mellow noise, like a pleasant bell.“How does a rock work? There are only so many uses for a rock on its own, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Chuckling as well, Hríd crawls over to the entrance of the cave so he can see the walls more clearly. He locates a section that is somewhat flat and presses the rock down, scraping away at it. To his delight, a chalky white line is formed against the wall’s surface, reminiscent of a light pencil mark.

“This is much better,” he agrees, smiling as he makes another mark, then yet another. An idea is beginning to form in his head.

With rough strokes, he begins to etch out a drawing of himself and Laegjarn. It’s a pitiful attempt at capturing either of their appearances, but he tries his best. He draws his spiky hair, his tunic, and for good measure, adds the beard he’s been growing ever since he escaped. Then, he draws Laegjarn and her short hair, her long cloak, and a Múspell Fireposy floating by her side. For the finishing touches, he writes their names in messy Niflese, before sitting back to admire his handiwork.

“Is that supposed to be us?” Laegjarn asks once he puts the stone down.

“Mhm. Do you like it?” Hríd turns to gauge her reaction, and is pleased to find that she is smiling.

“It’s very cute,” she says. “My sister used to love drawing too. She was quite adept with the brush…” Laegjarn trails off, her expression suddenly becoming troubled.

“Will she be okay?” Hríd asks quietly.

Laegjarn takes a deep breath and sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Isn’t she the rightful queen of Múspell, now that both you are Surtr are gone? Surely, the people will call for her to rise to the throne over Loki,” says Hríd.

“If only it was that simple,” Laegjarn replies, her lips becoming a thin line as she falls silent for a period of time. Then, when she’s ready to speak again, she does. “You are aware of the blessing of the dragons, right?”

“Of course.”

“In Múspell, as I’ve told you, the blessing confers immortality, great power, and the right to rule upon the receiver. That was how my father gained his position,” she explains. “There is a certain rite you must perform in order to obtain the blessing. It’s quite complex, but the rite requires a blood offering from either a descendant of Múspell, or the blood of someone who holds the current blessing. My father sacrificed his father to ascend to kingship.”

“The point of the tradition is to prove that you are the strongest of your generation, not just in the royal family, so there is also no requirement to be of dragon blood in order to receive the blessing. However, because my father was not ritualistically sacrificed, his blood is worthless...”

Slowly, Hríd begins to realise what she is implying. He looks at her with a horrified expression.

“Are you saying that Loki is going to sacrifice your sister?”

Laegjarn nods grimly. “Even before my father’s death, the throne is the only thing that cunning snake had in her sights. I wish I had considered the consequences before I acted. Perhaps, had I not killed my father so rashly...”

“Then you would’ve had to kill Laevatein,” Hríd says. He looks over at his drawing, at the crude smiles he had put on their faces, and then at Laegjarn’s somber expression.

What he would give to be able to put a smile on Laegjarn’s face now.

“But if I had waited for her to return, we might’ve been able to run away together. We might’ve been…” Laegjarn starts before shaking her head. “I suppose there’s no use dwelling in what I could’ve done. I have to focus on what I should be doing now.”

“We just have to survive,” Hríd says, and for the first time, he gains the courage to move towards Laegjarn and clasp her shoulder in an act of comfort. “We’ll run away until they forget we ever existed. And then we’ll start over somewhere else.”

“Yes…” Laegjarn lightly touches Hríd’s hand and stares at it, as if she’s unused to such displays of emotion. “We could do that.” she muses aloud.

Sitting quietly while listening to the rain pour down from the sky, Laegjarn’s hand slowly finds its way around Hríd’s, their fingers entwining into a delicate grasp. She is holding his hand hesitantly, as if such an act was not proper, and Hríd loosens his grip to give her the chance to let go. But she doesn’t for a while, she allows them to sit there like that, in a strangely intimate position where they can both be comforted by the other’s touch.

And then, without warning, Laegjarn leans in and presses their lips together. The kiss is warm, gentle, and it makes Hríd’s heart flutter as she pulls away, her tanned skin displaying the hints of a blush. Hríd finds himself blushing as well -- he can’t recall the last time he’s felt something like this, on his skin or in his heart. It’s strange, and they do not speak of what transpired in those moments, but simply return to silence, letting the emotions buzzing in the air speak for them. The event makes Hríd smile to himself, puts him at ease, as he realises that Laegjarn is giving him her trust. It must be a rare gift indeed, for he has never heard her speak of trusting anyone but herself and Laevatein. He closes his eyes contentedly, his spirit feeling light as he momentarily forgets who they are and the things they have done.

It’s a pleasant feeling, knowing that one isn’t completely alone in a world so much greater than anybody could ever be.

The hours trickle by without more surprises, so they make some meaningless conversation, spend some time resting, and before they know it, the storm has passed. So they set out again, boots squelching in puddles and mud as they walk underneath a mostly cloudy sky where the sun’s light escapes through in slivers, and it’s back to life as Hríd has come to know it.

They cross wide gorges, pass great plains, and navigate through denser and denser forests as they enter Múspell’s southern regions, getting closer to their unknown destination. It’s much different here than in the north, where they came from, Hríd notes. Here, grass grows tall and plentiful, despite being mostly yellowed. The water has lost its taste of bitter ashes, becoming sweet in comparison. Even the sky seems larger, greater, as if they are becoming more free through each passing moment.

It’s the fourth week now, and summer is starting to reach its peak. The humidity is much more evident in the air down south, making it hard to breathe at times. Hríd’s clothes stick to his skin, he sweats almost endlessly, and the two of them take increasingly longer water breaks in attempt to cool off, only to become thirsty mere minutes after they set off again.

The hum of cicadas that follows them no matter where they go seem to only lengthen the painful monotony of travelling through the scorching heat.

“We’re nearing one of the Flame Dragon’s temples,” Laegjarn says one day, as they are walking down a beaten, barely visible path through a forest.

“What does that mean?” Hríd asks.

“Not much,” Laegjarn says. She is still wearing her cloak, even in these conditions, and Hríd cannot understand how she can manage such a feat. “Well, truth be told, I do have a request, if you are willing to entertain it.”

“What is it?”

“I was hoping you could go into the nearby town and help me obtain some offerings for the Flame Dragon,” she explains. “I know you may think poorly of Múspell, but he is still my patron, and I want him to watch over us after we leave the kingdom.”

“I see,” says Hríd. He has never had much faith in either Nifl or Múspell, seeing as they are only creatures of legend, ones that have also never helped him in his times of need. But he supposes that if it makes Laegjarn happy, he has no reason to deny her request. “What do you need?” he asks.

“Just some frankincense and a burner.”

“That seems simple enough,” Hríd comments, nodding. “Where should I meet you this time?”

“Outside the temple. It’s near the outskirts of town, you can’t miss it.”

“Near the town? But what if somebody sees you?” Hríd asks.

Laegjarn smiles mysteriously. “I should hope you have enough faith in me to not get caught at this point.”

“Alright, I’ll trust you,” Hríd agrees, chuckling and dismissing his worries. Laegjarn always has a way, he reasons. He has kept his faith in her for this long, so he can certainly believe in her abilities for just a little bit more.

He walks into the port town humming a nonsensical tune to himself, spirits high. They are almost out of Múspell. After a few more days worth of travel, they will be in no-man’s land, mountainous territory that answers only to the wilderness. At that point, there will be no need to worry about bumping into soldiers or being recognised. It will just be them and the landscape, and nobody else. He has asked Laegjarn before, and much more in recent days, what they will do once they leave Múspell: her answers have always been vague, as if she intends on travelling forever, until they reach the end of the world.

That doesn’t bother Hríd, though. As long as he has her by his side, he is content to go anywhere. Even to the end of ends.

The town that he is sent to is much more alive than the others he has visited. Cobblestone paths snake through the closely packed buildings, people are shouting prices and greetings to one another, and children roam the streets, running with dogs and playing games.

It takes him a while, but he eventually finds the marketplace. From there, Hríd notes, he can see the large ships coming into the harbour, their sails bulging from the wind. His thoughts abuzz like that of a child, he wonders where they are coming from and what kinds of exotic cargo they carry. He resolves to ask Laegjarn later about what the town’s main exports and imports are, figuring that she will know.

Hríd locates a vendor selling lamps and burners fairly easily. He buys one of the latter, but when he asks the vendor if he has any frankincense, the man shakes his head and directs him to another stall. So Hríd goes there. This time, the man laughs and asks if he’s joking. When Hríd asks why, the man replies, telling him that frankincense is an expensive and high demand export from Embla, and that he’d be hard pressed to find any he can afford.

He tries to not let this fact deter him and visits a few more shopkeepers, but they all tell him that they have none in stock. Slowly getting frustrated and restless, Hríd eventually settles on buying some sage from a kind old woman and hopes that it will be a suitable offering to Múspell. It’s going to be burnt into ashes anyways, he figures, so what’s the difference?

Heart a little heavy from his failure, Hríd makes his way to the temple where he’s supposed to meet up with Laegjarn. He spots it immediately after he leaves the town -- it’s a large structure made of stones coloured a sickly yellow hue, giving the slabs of rock a resemblance to bone. On the top of the temple, there is an ornate statue of a dragon he can only assume to be Múspell. It’s decorated in what appears to be gold foil and rubies, and Hríd finds himself wondering if every temple is this lavish. But Múspell is a rich empire, so he supposes that they can afford luxuries like this on a whim.

The temple itself, as he gets close enough, is very quiet. Serene, almost, but not quite. There are no crowds of worshippers like he expected, nor any priests to watch over the proceedings. It feels like it’s just him there, all alone.

A crow caws in the distance, and Hríd gets the feeling that something is _very_ wrong.

He enters and starts to wander through the corridors of the temple, but encounters only empty rooms and dead ends at every turn. The entire temple is abandoned, he realises.

But where is Laegjarn?

All of a sudden, he feels something in the air shift. It’s like something has snapped, something has broken, and the temple itself has entered into another state of being. He can’t place his finger on what exactly happened, and it’s eerily silent for a few seconds.

Then, Hríd can start to make out the sounds of someone chanting loudly. A female voice.

Laegjarn.

Dashing in the direction of the voice, he passes statues of Múspell, barely noticing the dried blood at the dragons' feet, and bolts through a series of hallways until he reaches a large door engraved with flames. It’s slightly ajar, as if someone hadn’t completely closed it, and from beyond, he can hear Laegjarn’s voice, clear as day.

“Múspell, Dragon of Flame, I offer you my flesh. Arm and arm, leg and leg…”

Gritting his teeth, Hríd barges through the door and rushes into the giant circular room before skidding to a sudden stop. It’s empty except for small, human-sized altar at its centre.

Laegjarn is sitting on it, eyes closed, with a knife held to her throat.

“My head, my heart, all of it offered, that you may feed…”

“Laegjarn!” Hríd screams, running towards her. “What are you doing?”

She opens her eyes at the sound of her voice, surprise colouring her face. But then she shakes her head and offers him a sad, longing smile before closing her eyes once more. In that moment, Hríd realises that he isn’t going to be able to reach her in time.

“Bless my sister with your power, make her the rightful queen, and fix my mistakes,” Laegjarn says, softly but full of finality. As if she’s been preparing for this moment all along. “Devour me.”

And with that, she pulls the knife across her neck.

Blood spurts from the open wound, but her body does not slump or fall -- instead, it is suspended there by some greater power, and Hríd becomes aware of another presence in the temple with him, one that doesn’t feel human in the slightest. The air starts to shimmer and his knees start to shake before he realises that it’s not his knees shaking, but the ground itself.

A flash of light emanates from Laegjarn’s body and the smell of burning flesh and blood fills Hríd’s nose. A violent tremor causes him to fall to his knees. Unable to see past the light and hot energy reverberating throughout the room, he has never felt so small in his life. Tears start to form at the corners of his eyes from the pressure that seems to be exerting itself on him in all directions, and he swears that if the force grows any stronger, he is going to be crushed by it.

But after a few more seconds, the light and pressure abruptly disappears, and Hríd finds himself back in the temple, his mind spinning on its axis as he tries to comprehend what he just experienced. It couldn’t have been anything mortal, and it wasn’t just an earthquake either.

Could it have been…?

Weary, and knowing he will never get an answer to his questions again, he raises his head to look at the altar, the last remnants of hope throbbing within his chest. But there is nothing there.

As if nothing had happened at all.

* * *

Unsure what to do after pondering his situation for a few days, Hríd ends up using the last of the money Laegjarn left him with to board one of the ships he had seen in the port town. He returns to Nifl, a journey that takes a few days, and it’s only after he arrives in snowy Hjarnhof that he hears the news.

Nifl is being emancipated by the new queen of Múspell, Laevatein. For the first time in decades, they are free again.

With the help of some friendly locals, Hríd manages to get a ride with a caravan to the capital, where he obtains a meeting with the de facto queen of Nifl, whom he later finds out to be his sister, Gunnthrá.

He meets his two other sisters, Fjorm and Ylgr, and after many embraces and tears shed, he is welcomed back into the family that he has never known, the family that he thought he would never see again.

The Hríd from a few years ago would’ve been delighted to be in this situation. He is fed well, dressed well, and brought up in the way a true royal is. He learns to fight with a sword, how to ride a horse, and how to rule a country. He sees the aurora dance in a wide, indigo sky, he sees snow caps on mountains greater than any giant of lore, and he is surrounded by people who love him through every moment of it. Everything feels like a picturesque version of perfect. Yet it’s not.

This, of course, is something he must address, and so he does.

“You’re going to Múspell?” Fjorm asks him when he tells her of his plans. A concerned look shadows over her pale face. “But why? And where?”

“It’s difficult to explain. Don’t worry too much, though.”

“When are you coming back?” Ylgr asks, running over to hug Hríd. She buries her face in his shoulder and he smiles gently, patting his sister on the back.

“In a few months. You’d better be taller by the time I’m back.”

Ylgr raises her chin and grins, her dimples showing. “You can count on me.”

Donning a simple, brown cloak so that he will not attract attention, Hríd ends up boarding a boat to a small seaside village in Múspell on its west coast. Once he arrives, he stays in town for a few days to enjoy the local attractions and to gather news on how the kingdom is doing since Laevatein’s rise to power.

Then he sets off, with only one destination in mind. He travels for a few days by horse, riding more than he rests, until he reaches a secluded forest near the centre of the kingdom. There, he spends the day pushing aside branches and exploring, taking his time.

He soon finds what he is looking for.

It’s a cave, small and full of moss. Inside the cave, near the entrance, Hríd finds the drawing he had made what feels like an eternity ago. It’s still there, the silly sketch of him and someone who no longer exists, and with a knowing smile tinted with lingering sorrow, he kneels down beside it, looking at the ground where he had once sat, and runs his fingers over the rock wall, trying to feel something he has lost long ago.

 _There are so many things I wanted to tell you,_ Hríd thinks, raising his eyes to look at the messy Niflese underneath the drawings. Out of his pocket, he produces a Múspell Fireposy and places it on the ground below. An offering to the powers greater than he.

_But if I have only one message I’m able to send, I just want you to know that you are my hero. Even if that’s something you never thought you could be._

In that moment, a strong breeze stirs within the cave, much to Hríd’s surprise. He turns around to look deeper into the cave for the source of the disturbance, yet he sees nothing but darkness. It couldn’t have come from there.

When he turns back around, however, he only manages to catch a glimpse of the Múspell Fireposy as it’s lifted into the air. It rises further and further, closer to the cries of the cicadas and the boundless sky, until it’s carried away by the soothing summer wind, going somewhere no one knows.

**Author's Note:**

> i love this ship so much...this was heavily influenced by one of my favourite vocaloid producers, kanzaki iori, and his song, "ano natsu ga houwa suru". give it a listen if you have time ! thank you to @kasurole from twitter for helping me edit this hellmess, and i hope you all enjoyed this fic !


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